


Unworthy of Your Love

by WatchMyFavesSuffer



Category: Gossip Girl (TV 2007)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bart is Dead, Bulimia, Depression, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Misusing Shakespeare, Self-Harm, This is Weirdly Bart-centric, bisexual Chuck Bass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27254920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatchMyFavesSuffer/pseuds/WatchMyFavesSuffer
Summary: I truly can't believe I've been so emotionally compromised by this rich straight couple....So here's three times Blair saves Chuck from himself-- and one time he has to save her.(Because clichés are fun, okay?)Title taken from Sondheim's Assassins.
Relationships: Chuck Bass/Blair Waldorf
Comments: 4
Kudos: 60





	Unworthy of Your Love

i.

Blair finds Chuck in the back room of a club, surrounded by sex workers and Harvard MBAs. His tie is loosened and his jacket is thrown over a couch. He’s surrounded by bottles and Blair doubts he knows the name of anyone he’s partying with.

He stand up when he sees her, throws his arms out in a gesture of welcome, which makes him stumble a bit. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Alright, Chuck, get your coat. We’re going home.”

“I’m conducting _business_ , Blair.” He gestures broadly with his scotch glass.

“Yes, I see you’re all hard at work. Now, put on your jacket and let’s go home and get you cleaned up.”

A low chorus of _oooohs_ rises, a taunt from the frat boys who are watching.

“Oh, Blair, you know how I appreciate your _tough love_ — although usually there’s a bit more leather involved.” He stage-whispers.

Blair grabs his jacket herself and pushes Chuck toward the door. He staggers out, and she follows.

When they get back to the penthouse, he collapses in a chair and pulls a flask from his breast pocket.

“I’ll take that.” Blair plucks it out of his hand and pours its contents down the sink. “You need food and water. I’ll call for room service.”

“I’d rather have another scotch, if it’s all the same to you.”

“You need to eat something, Chuck.”

“Being lectured about eating by Blair Waldorf…a little ironic, don’t you think?” He muses, voice a little slurred.

“It’s four in the morning, you have work in a few hours. At least drink a coffee so you can stay awake.”

“Way ahead of you.” Chuck brandishes a little plastic baggie. He pours it out on the table and gropes around in his pocket for a credit card. “And don’t bother trying to find my stash, you know I’ll just buy more.”

“Not if I tell the driver not to take you to your dealer.”

“ _Then I’ll walk_.” Chuck replies, a hard, frantic edge emerging in his voice. Credit card in hand, he starts chopping up lines.

“Fine.” Blair says, clipped. She smooths her skirt, then kneels down next to Chuck. “If we’re going to snort coke, let’s snort coke.”She tosses her hair back, grabs the rolled-up hundred off the table and leans down to do a line.

He presses a drunk-clumsy hand into her shoulder. “Stop it, Blair, that’s not funny.” He grabs the bill from her hand.

“Who’s joking? Let’s do this: every time you do a line, I do a line.”

Chuck rolls his eyes. “You’re 90 pounds and you’ve never had anything stronger than a joint in your life.”

“Well since my boyfriend has decided it’s okay to gamble with his life, now seems like a pretty good time to start.” She snatches the bill back.

He stares at her with glassy, red-rimmed eyes. “Don’t do this to me.”

“So it’s fine for you to do it, but not for me? I have to watch you destroy yourself, but you can’t handle it if I do?”

“You don’t understand. It’s different with you.” He shakes his head and draws in a shaky, sharp breath. Blair notices how deep the dark circles beneath his eyes are.

“Why? Why is it different?” Tears are welling in her eyes.

“Because people love you.” He drops his gaze to the floor. “You have your parents, and Cyrus, and Serena. People to miss you if anything...happened to you.“

“People love you, too, Chuck. _I_ love you.”

“No accounting for taste.”

“Chuck, look at me.” His dilated eyes meet hers. “I love you, and I have impeccable taste. So you’re obviously wrong.” She smiles softly, sadly.

Chuck caresses her face. He brings his mouth to hers.

“So, can I get rid of this?” She asks gently, inclining her head towards the white powder on the table.

He nods. “Just— do it now, before I change my mind.”

She kisses him again, deeply. “I’m proud of you, Chuck.”

She wipes the coke off the table with the flat of her hand, sending it scattering into the air and settling into the rug.

ii.

Blair is nipping her way playfully down Chuck’s chest when she sees it. He’s trying to watch _An American in Paris_ on TCM (and God help her if she ever told anyone about Chuck’s love of musicals) and, as much as she loves Gene Kelly, she is trying her best to distract him. She bites, then kisses the skin of his chest, tan from a summer poolside in the Hamptons, then his stomach. Then, beside the skin she had just kissed, she spots it: a small, raised scar on his side, still angry red.

She runs a delicate finger over it. “Where did this come from?”

“Must have been when we were playing with my new Clavin Klein belt last week.” He murmurs, grabbing her hand and lacing his fingers through hers to stop her from inspecting further.

“I had no idea I hit you this hard,” she murmurs, worry marring her face. “Why didn’t you use the safe word?”

“I hadn’t noticed it was bleeding...I was just enjoying myself so much.” He kisses the back of her hand.

She withdraws her hand from his and places it in her lap.

“What?”

”Nothing.”

“No, what is it?”

“I can tell you’re lying.” Now they’re both sitting up, facing each other. Her mouth is set like a dare and her eyes are utterly closed-off.

“Why would I lie about some stupid injury?” Chuck forces himself to laugh.

“I don’t know Chuck, why would you?”

“I _didn’t_.”

“What, I wouldn’t hit you hard enough so you went out and found someone who would?”

“No, Blair, I wouldn’t—I could _never_ do that to you. I can’t even _look_ at anyone else. I swear.”

“What other _possible_ reason could you have to lie to me?”

“Because I did it to myself!”

A moment of silence. Two.

“What are you talking about,” Blair breathes.

“It started when you were engaged to Louis. When I stopped being able to feel anything. But when something _hurt_ me, I could feel. I could break through all that nothingness. I thought the urge went away, but—“ he stops short.

“So you...cut yourself?” The words don't feel right in her mouth, blocky and melodramatic. Blair had known girls at Constance who did this, but it never made any sense to her. The thought that Chuck— _her_ Chuck— hated himself enough to do this to himself came like a punch to the face. “With what?”

“Bart’s old straight razor.” He shrugs as though this weren’t a big deal, but his ragged breathing gives him away.

“I don’t understand. Everything is going so well— with business, with us. Why would you need to do this?”

“I like to use his razor when I have important meetings— he always said nothing makes a man feel more powerful than a close shave. It makes me feel...close to him.” His voice almost veers into nostalgia before his face darkens. “But holding something that belonged to him made me think about him— about how he saw me, and what he’d say if he were here. ‘You’ve always been a disappointment, Chuck. You’re not smart enough, not disciplined enough for me to trust you.’ If you ever saw me the way he did— the way I really am— you’d leave and you’d never come back.”

“Chuck, you are brilliant and handsome and so much more than what you father could see. And if you don’t let go of this idea he had of you, you will waste your whole life waiting to prove him right. I know what kind of man you can be, and it doesn’t matter if your father didn’t believe in you. _I_ do.”

iii.

It was just a game. One of their many games. And so what if Chuck had to kiss a guy? He’s done it before— and far less conventional things, she knew. And she understands why he might be upset that she manipulated him, or that he had to kiss someone who wasn’t her. After all, she has next to no interest in kissing anyone who isn’t Chuck, and he would have hell to pay if he ever set her up to do so. But it’s been days since it happened and he’s still out of it, staring at his laptop screen as if to avoid her gaze, getting home from work and tearing through the house looking for leftover Vicodin or Xanax.

“Chuck, you are officially more pharmaceutical than person. Care to share what’s going on?”

“Nothing. Just stressed.” His voice is clipped and his hair is uncharacteristically un-coiffed.

“I apologized about the...incident. If you’re still angry with me, we can have a conversation, but don’t freeze me out—“

He takes her hands and pulls her down on to the couch beside him. “No, Blair, I’m not angry with you. I’m just—“ his voice breaks off. “It wasn’t something I thought I would ever do again.” He says carefully, deliberately.

“I don’t— kissing a man couldn’t have been _that_ bad.”

He sighs. “Quite the opposite, actually.”

“You...liked it? Oh God, first my father and now my boyfriend? Every man in my life is turning gay!”

Chuck laughs, suddenly and brightly, as though the laughter surprised him. “No, I’ve _always_ liked men, Blair. I might like women more, but I’ve always known I could... _swing_ that way, as it were.” He pauses, reflects. “Ironically, one time involved a swing— it was a sex club in Berlin, if I recall—“

“That’s enough of that, you deviant.” Blair laughed, and placed a loving hand on the side of his face. She brushed his hair behind his ear. “It’s okay if you enjoyed it. I know you would never cheat on me.”

“Do you think...do you think my father could tell?”

Blair looked at him quizzically.

“Everything he used to say, about me being too _soft_ , not being _a real man_ , and how he thought being with you would force me to ‘get over whatever childlike phase you’re going through’, I think he said. Do you think he knew?”

Blair thinks about it. “Does Lily know?”

Chuck laughs again. “Probably. She knows everything.”

“And _she_ definitely doesn’t care. And obviously Eric wouldn’t. Eleanor would think it was chic, for sure. Cyrus marched for gay rights in the 70s. And _I_ love every part of you, and this is no exception.”

“Okay, sure. What is the point of this little spiel, Blair?”

“Well, none of us think you’re soft, or not a real man, or going through a _phase_ — A phase, by the way, is when you decide to flat iron your bangs or consider majoring in art history. Someone should have explained that to Bart—So, the way I see it, your real family is all on board.”

Chuck, at a loss for words, as he often was when Blair was being so good to him, leans forward and kisses her.

“And, by the way,” she whispers. “Your father thought Valentina rock-stud heels were elegant. Let’s not always trust his opinion.”

iv.

“Blair?” Chuck calls, music in his voice. He is having one of those days where he felt dipped in gold, untouchable. He was what everyone wanted to be: rich and young and handsome, and he had the most beautiful woman on Earth all to himself. The thought makes him walk a little faster, stripping off his coat and scarf as he crosses the penthouse.

“Blair, darling, I’m home,” he calls, a bit louder.Still no answer. He checks the bedroom: empty. The light is on in the bathroom but the door is shut.

“Blair!” He knocks.

A gasp of air from inside. Then, panting: “I-I’ll be right there, Chuck.”

A smile curls his lips. “Playing with ourselves before I get home, are we? You really couldn’t wait?”

He opens the door, expecting to find Blair in a compromising position, pretty little cheeks flushed, hair disheveled and headband cast aside.

His smile quickly fades. Blair is holding her hair back with one hand while the other is down her throat. She hurries to stand up, puts her hands behind her back.

“Blair! What are you doing?” Chuck feels like he might faint, like he can’t trust his legs and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Very few people are capable of making Chuck feel— well, _anything_. No one can make their way through the mazes that lead to his heart, with their trap doors and false starts, and he likes it that way. But Blair is different. The thought of her sick and in pain and, worse, _doing it to herself,_ gets past all his defenses and cracks the porcelain vase of his heart clean in half.

“It’s nothing, Chuck, it’s really—“

“Do you need me to call a doctor?”

“I’m not sick.” She says archly.

“Well, if you won’t talk to a doctor, will you talk to me?” He takes a step toward her. “Why would you do this to yourself?”

He tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and looks at her tenderly. She shrugs away from his touch.

“Spare me the white knight fantasy, Bass. You’re not saving me from my tragic little life, I’m not Ev—“ He instinctually bristles at the mention of Eva, which brings back memories of all the things they’d done to each other. She snaps her jaw shut before she says something she’ll regret. “Just. Give me a moment. I’ll be out soon and we can talk.”

He hovers in the doorway. She raises an eyebrow, as if to say _Well?_ Chuck reluctantly withdraws.

He hears the water running, and imagines Blair fuming at him as she rinses her mouth out and washes her hands. Then the telltale click of her heels: she must be pacing.

Chuck’s tie suddenly feels like it’s choking him, so he undresses and puts on a silk robe. His hands shake while tying the purple belt. He needs something to clear his head. He heads for the espresso maker, thinks better of it, heads to the bar cart and pours himself two fingers of single-malt. Then the door opens and Blair walks primly into the room, as though nothing had happened.

“Blair,” he stretches her name out the way he always does, low and sweet like molten sugar in his mouth. “What’s going on? I thought your bulimia was cured.”

She hold up a finger to shush him. “‘Bulimia’ is for people from the suburbs and second-tier actresses. I am not _bulimic_. This is just something I— do, occasionally.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were doing this again?”

“Because it’s pathetic.” She crosses her arms.

“Why don’t you want to talk to a doctor?”

“So someone can snap a picture of me headed into a psychiatrist’s office and get it plastered all over Gossip Girl?”

“You could be seriously hurting yourself.”

“Whereas that scotch glass that’s practically _glued_ to your hand is so healthy,” she rolls her eyes.

“I drink because I enjoy it. Nobody does… _that_ for any reason besides hating themselves.”

“ _You_ want to tell to _me_ about self-loathing? That’s rich, even for you.”

He sighs and downs the rest of his glass.

“I just don’t understand...how you don’t see it.”

“See what?” She crosses her arms, shrinking a bit under the intensity of his gaze.

“That you’re gorgeous. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He draws nearer to her, wraps his arms around her waist. He drops his voice to a whisper, nuzzling her ear. “And I’ve seen _a lot_ of women. Harry Winston’s never sold a diamond half as radiant as you.”

Chuck walks around Blair to unzip her dress. His whisper is so low she can barely hear it. It buzzes across her skin and makes her shiver.“I worship you, Blair. Don’t you ever _dare_ hurt yourself again.”

His face is nestled in her neck, her hand clutching his, but she stares ahead as though she’s somewhere else entirely.

“I feel so dirty inside, Chuck,” She whispers. “I have so much to be ashamed of.”

“Do you remember your Shakespeare, Blair? ‘ _Thus, from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged’_?” She nods vaguely. “Well, I’m going to kiss you now, and I won’t stop kissing you, everywhere, until you feel clean again. How does that sound?”

He kisses her, and kisses her, and she is soft and trembling under his lips. He slips her dress off her shoulders and to the floor, then he picks her up and carries her into bed.

“Blair Cornelia Waldorf, you are everything good in me. You know that, don’t you? You are the most brilliant and strong and ambitious and dazzling person in Manhattan— which means, of course, in the world.” Between every adjective he kisses her— her eyelids, her forehead, her collarbone. Then her arms, the palms of her hands, her fingertips.

She starts to cry, softly. It pulls him up short, his eyes flying to hers.

“Don’t stop.” she whispers.


End file.
